A blog mostly focused on poetry. I am not sure I understand anything else.

Tuesday, May 5, 2009

Day 3

As you may have noticed, today is the 5th of May, so my count seems to be a bit off for my Pushkin project. The truth is, I didn't begin writing until Sunday, which means, from my perspective, this is really Day 3. I hope you will forgive my whimsical figures. Like much about Art, my numbers bear only the most ridiculous relation to reality. Besides, it's hard enough to write a stanza a day without worrying about my math.

So far, all I have done this morning is revise what I wrote yesterday, which I include below. I have added some puppies and some galaxies to go along with my podiatrist, Dr. Silverman. Everybody craves a little companionship now and then, even podiatrists, so I hope these additions will not be rejected as superfluous by the reader. I have also tried to tighten a few lines and generally smooth over some vague patches I noticed on the train last night.

I do have another verse in the works, which I promise to publish later in the day, as a rare second-in-a-day posting. As this was (is?) one of those unusual events prophesied by Nostrodamus, this will not come as a shock to you. I include the information here solely for those readers schooled more in science than mystical Medieval lore. I understand such creatures do exist. And I do my best to make this blog accessible to everyone. So, I crave your indulgence.

Anyway, here is today's damage:

Introduction

Today, as I was paring my toenails,I had a startling poetic thought:Since I have started fabricating tales,Once I am finished with my toes, I oughtTo tell a story totally in verse,Like Alexander Pushkin. What’s the worstThing which could happen to me, if I do?I waste a month, while trying to pursueA dream. Not a great sacrifice to make.But digging deeper, under my big toe,To get a stubborn piece of sock, I goAnd stab a capillary by mistake:Administering a pedicure is notThe time to be developing your plot.

Although a pint of blood, I’m sure, will proveIndispensable to me later on—Blood being second only to true loveAs an essential element of fiction;Beyond the story of Philoctetes,Penned by Pulitzer winner Sophocles,Western literature is rather weakWhen it comes to treating injured feet.There is Achilles, yes, and OedipusTranslates from ancient Greek as ‘swollen foot’—But is my toe the basis for a book,Except for, maybe, my podiatrist,Dr. Silverman? It’s tough to say.The man hates poetry. He says it’s gay.

I mention my podiatrist because—As you have no doubt noticed here so far—Underneath the sterile square of gauzeStuck here to stop my bleeding toe—there are—I hesitate to call them ‘flaws’—a few—Let’s try the phrase—‘slight changes’—that will do—Which I’ve made to Pushkin’s sonnet schemeLess fatal to the work than they might seem:I add a fifth beat to his four foot line.You may regard the act as criminalOr revel in the extra syllableLike puppies playing out in the sunshine.Pentameter is kind of hard to ditch If your first love in life was Shakespeare, which

It was for me. There’s not much I can do.If Pushkin’s relatives should get windOf my two-timing ways, I doubt they’ll sue.They’ll probably ask an unemployed cousinTo slit my throat when I’m asleep in bed.I guess I could get used to being dead;As long as you can promise what I wroteContinues living in your heart, I’ll copeWith fame and martyrdom quite well. ButIf anybody offers me some cashTo shut up, I’ll consider it, asI’m always short. And having your throat cutBy former agents of the KGBDoes sound a wee bit painful, actually.

Life’s full of choices. I propose a truceBetween my critics and their allies inThe Russian mob. I’ll borrow—not abuse—A bottle of champagne from the horizonBequeathed to me—to gawkers everywhereWho’ve gulped at galaxies we might compareIn liquid brilliance to a sparkling wordOf Alexander Pushkin. It’s absurdTo carry the comparison further thanA single word: our metaphors break downTo burps and bubbles—particles of soundThat do not look like galaxies, or standFor much of anything, beyond noise.It’s hard to fit the stars into your voice.